Harmony (13 page)

My dad's the one who drove Scott to the ER after he got hurt last night, so I already know most of the details before we get to breakfast on Sunday: he has a second-degree burn on the palm of his right hand, and he'll have to wear a bandage for a while and do some rehab (which I thought only meant that thing about getting over a drug addiction, but I guess not), but other than that, he'll be okay. And Tilly asked a bunch of gross questions, like how much skin was hanging off and what color it was, so I also know the answers to those things, even though I'd rather not.

When we get to the dining hall, Scott's there, and he seems pretty normal. His hand's all wrapped up in a giant ball of white gauze, and he looks like he hasn't slept or taken a shower or anything. But in a strange way, he seems happier than usual. He's grinning all over the place and practically bouncing off the walls with excitement.

“Big day,” he keeps saying to people when he runs into them at the buffet table or on their way to the kitchen. “Big day.”

And with all the stuff about Scott getting hurt, I'd forgotten that today's the day the first GCs are getting here. I have a weird feeling
about it, like when your parents are having people over for dinner that you don't know, or when your friend is trying to convince you that a movie's good, but you still don't want to watch it. Not dread, exactly, but . . . the idea of a bunch of strangers coming and staying at our camp just doesn't sound fun.

Scott comes and sits down at our table, carrying his plate of pancakes with his left hand.

“Good morning,” my mom says. “Were you able to get any sleep?”

He grins. “Sleep is for the weak.”

“So I heard you didn't have to get anything amputated,” says Tilly. I see my mom close her eyes for a second and shake her head, the way she does when she can't quite believe something Tilly's just said.

“Nope,” says Scott. “Everything's still attached.”

“That's good,” says Tilly. “I read this thing online once about this guy who had to . . .”

And then she just stops talking. Which is weird for Tilly, weird enough that we all turn to look and see if she's like having a stroke or choking on her breakfast or something. But she's just sitting there, looking surprised.

“You okay there, Till?” asks my dad.

It takes her a minute to answer. “Yeah,” she says slowly. “I was going to say something inappropriate, but I stopped myself. Because I didn't want to get AD Block.” She's smiling and she looks really proud of herself.

Then all the adults are falling all over themselves to congratulate her and tell her what a great decision that was, and my mom reaches across the table to give her arm a little squeeze.

“Yeah,” says Tilly. “That was kind of weird. I was totally going to start talking about this guy I read about who had to have his penis amputated because he had cancer . . .”

And of course, being Tilly, she doesn't even understand what she just did. While my mom and dad are pointing out the flaw in her
reasoning, I notice that Scott is having a hard time trying to cut up his pancakes with his fork, using only one hand, so I say, “I can do that for you.”

Scott looks up at me and smiles. He has really nice eyes. I don't mean that like I have a crush on him or anything, it's just hard not to notice when he's looking right at you so closely.

“Thank you, Iris,” he says, passing his plate to me. “You can be my right-hand girl.”

After breakfast, Scott talks for a little while about the Guest Campers, and tells us all the things he was planning to say last night at the Saturday Campfire, before he got hurt: that he's proud of us, and we've learned so much in the past few days, and now we have the chance to help other families. And we should just be friendly and be ourselves and whatever.

Tilly raises her hand to talk. “Here's what I don't understand about the GCs,” she says. “Why are they coming here?”

Scott laughs, and so do some of the other grown-ups. “Good question, Tilly,” Scott says. “Let's see if one of the other kids can answer that for you. Candy? Iris? Ryan?”

Ryan's not even paying attention, as usual, and I'm trying to decide if I want to answer, but Candy gets her hand up first.

“So, okay,” she says. “The reason that
any
of us are here is because our parents think that living a little bit separate from some of the parts of the modern world will be good for us. Right? Like getting away from computers and texting, and growing our own food so that it doesn't have any mutant additives or whatever.”

“‘Mutant additives,'” says Tilly. “LOL.”

“Go on,” says Scott.

“So that's the same reason that the GCs want to come. Except they're only coming for a week, instead of moving here forever. It's like at a Renaissance fair where there are some people who are just there because it sounds like fun, and there are some people who are
super into pretending it's the Renaissance, and they have all the right clothes and call people wenches and squires and won't sell you a smoothie unless you call it ‘grog.'”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” says Scott. “So you're saying that we're the . . . what, the freakish true believers, while everyone else is just dabbling in our lifestyle?”

“Maybe we're the Amish,” Tilly says. “That would kind of make sense.”

“Yeah, that works,” says Candy. “We're the Amish and the GCs are the tourists who want to take a ride in our horse and buggy.”

“That sounds dirty for some reason,” Tilly says. “Like if ‘horse and buggy' were a euphemism for . . . never mind. I'm not going to say it.”

“Good plan,” says my dad.

Scott holds up a hand to get our attention. “If we're all done with questions and . . . metaphors, I think I'm going to see if I can get a nap in before our guests arrive.”

As everyone starts to get up and clear their plates, Tilly leans in close to me. “Penis,” she says, not whispering, but at least in a lower voice than usual. “I was going to say it was a euphemism for ‘penis.'”

“Duh,” I say, because even I knew that. Everything's
always
a euphemism for “penis.”

 • • • 

Cars start pulling into the camp driveway around lunchtime. Not that there are that many of them—there are only going to be three GC families each week—but it's surprising to see anyone new after a week of being by ourselves.

Scott stands on the lawn with a clipboard and greets each family as they arrive, giving them welcome packets and taking away their phones and other electronics. He's got his hurt arm in a sling now, for some reason, and when people ask him about it, he just says, “A little mishap in the line of duty.”

We all have jobs, and mine is to be the Welcome Guide for the Russell family: I'm supposed to show them where their cabin is, help them bring in their stuff, answer any questions they have, and then take the kids out to show them around while the parents have a few minutes to themselves.

The Russells are the last family to arrive. There's a mom and two boys, ages six and eight. They've come all the way from South Carolina and have real Southern accents. The mom asks me a million things about our family and how long we've been here and stuff like that, and then she asks me to go get them some towels; we have a bunch of extra linens that we keep in the laundry room. As I walk across Town Square, I make up a game where this is a hotel, and I have a job here as a chambermaid. My mom and dad run room service, and Tilly works at the front desk, even though she makes lots of mistakes with people's reservations. And Scott is our boss, except he broke his arm, so I have to help him run the place. I'm not sure what his job is, I guess he's the manager or something high-up like that. Maybe he even owns the whole hotel.

On cold nights, when the elders gathered by the fire to tell stories and their talk turned to the Great Autism Panic of the early twenty-first century, we children were never quite sure how much to believe. The details were so odd that we were tempted to dismiss it as Hammondite folklore, no more or less true than the story of the strange summer camp where families went to learn how to be families.

Either way, though, it was an intriguing period of history: the quaint euphemisms (“special needs,” for example, and “on the spectrum”), the fearmongering and misinformation, the chaos caused by the lack of an agreed-upon medical and therapeutic protocol. The elders lingered on the era's rudimentary understanding of neuroscience, the dissent within the medical community itself as to nomenclature, classification, and diagnostic criteria. Celebrities giving advice based on superstition, rather than medical fact. The worry that a child's natural inclinations and tendencies might become more destructive if left untreated. Parents seemed to be afraid of their own children's brains.

Most fascinating to us was always the idea that afflicted children were often segregated, confined to separate schools away from their
“neurotypical” peers. It was a dark time, the elders conceded when we marveled at the cruelty, but you had to take it in context. Given the challenges that twenty-first-century parents faced, they said, perhaps we could cut them a little slack. We have to believe that they were doing the best they could.

Years later, in classrooms and libraries, when we learned from our own studies that the tales had been true after all, we weren't really all that surprised. Stranger things have happened. We simply shook our heads, like every generation does, and felt glad to be living in an age more enlightened than the one that came before.

By dinnertime on Sunday, I've met all three GC families. There's the Southern mom with the two boys that I helped earlier, there's a family with a mom and dad and twins (one boy and one girl), and a family with a mom, a dad, and one boy. Tons of names to remember, and I'm trying to get them all down, even though they'll be leaving again in six days, and we'll have another new batch to learn.

After dinner on Sunday, Scott stands up in the dining hall and gives a welcome speech to the Guest Campers. After talking about what time breakfast is and what kinds of activities we'll be doing and all that kind of stuff, he says, “Now, several of you have asked about my injury.”

He gestures to his arm, which is still in a sling. “The truth is, we had a little campfire mishap last night. Luckily, no one else was hurt, but we're all aware that it could have had a much more unfortunate outcome. I just want to take this opportunity to assure you that we take fire safety very seriously, and we're redoubling our efforts to make sure that nothing like this happens again.”

He pauses for a minute and looks down, then shifts to a more cheerful tone. “And I think that's pretty much it, so . . .”

“Wait a minute, Scott,” someone calls out. It's Janelle. She pushes her chair back from the table and stands up. “I'd like to say something, if that's okay.”

“Of course,” says Scott. He sounds concerned.

“Thanks,” says Janelle. “So okay.” She looks around the room. “I think I've met all of our Guest Campers, but if I haven't, my name is Janelle Ruffin. This is my husband, Tom, and that little guy sucking on his fingers over there is our son, Hayden. And the part of the story that Scott left out is that he only got hurt because he was trying to protect my child from harm.”

“Oh, hey . . .” Scott interrupts. He's shaking his head.

“No,” says Janelle. “This is important. Because I know that these people who just got here today are probably feeling a little bit unsure about a lot of things. And I just want them to know that they're in good hands, because this man standing up there in front of you . . .” Her voice is starting to shake a little bit, like she's trying not to cry. “I am so grateful that he's come into our lives. Before I met Scott Bean . . . I swear, I was starting to lose hope. Hayden is the most precious thing in my life, but I was starting to think there was nothing I could do to help him. Tom and I . . . we just felt so alone, you know?” She's crying now, full-on sobbing, and for a minute that's the only sound in the dining hall. Tom gets up and puts his arm around her. I look down at my plate, roll my leftover corncob from one side to the other. I hate it when adults get all embarrassing and sappy.

“Okay,” says Janelle. “I'm finished. I didn't mean to get all emotional on you. I just wanted to say that Scott Bean is a hero. He's
my
hero.”

“Oh, Janelle,” says Scott. He sounds like maybe he's going to start crying, too, which makes me so embarrassed I kind of want to
put my head down on the table. He walks over to Janelle and hugs her. My mom starts clapping softly, and other people join in.

Tilly says, “I was going to say ‘Get a room,' but I stopped myself.” Luckily, there's enough noise that I don't think anybody else hears her.

 • • • 

It turns out that things are different when we have Guest Campers here. At first, it seems fun, like a party: we're meeting new people and showing them all the cool things we've made, and even the food is better than usual.

But there's a lot more work, which I guess makes sense because there are almost twice as many people. After a day or two, I'm starting to feel like the GCs are all on vacation, and we're not. We have to get up super-early to make breakfast for everybody, then it's chores all morning until lunch. In the afternoons, there are fun activities, but it's still like the focus is on the visiting kids, and the rest of us are there to help set up or whatever. Plus, there's this feeling that we're on display; the visiting parents are watching us all the time, to see if we're normal or well behaved or whatever it is they want their kids to be after coming here.

On Monday afternoon, I'm helping Scott set up an obstacle course, and he asks me to get a pitcher of water and some cups to bring down to the lake, so I end up in the dining hall during one of the Parent Conversation Sessions. Before I go in, I can see through the screen that my mom is sitting right by the door, and I hear her say to one of the visiting moms, “No, Iris doesn't have a diagnosis. She's NT.”

Then I open the door, and she sees me, and I go stand behind her and put my arms around her neck. “What's NT?” I ask.

“I'll tell you later,” she says softly, and pulls me into a quick hug before she sends me on my way.

That afternoon, I spend a long time imagining what those letters might stand for, both good and bad possibilities. First, I decide it means “natural talent,” and that makes me happy, but then I think about the kids like Tilly; they might be a little off-balance, but some of them are totally amazing at art or math or spelling or whatever. (Does memorizing whole TV episodes count as a talent?) And then I think, maybe the
N
stands for “negative,” and there aren't any good combinations that can come out of that.

Later, before bed, I ask my mom again, and she tells me it stands for “neurotypical,” which apparently isn't good or bad, it's just . . . normal. Tilly's not NT; there are a million different ways she's not normal. But I'm totally average, and it's kind of disappointing to know that
that's
the way my mom describes me to people when she doesn't know I'm listening.

 • • • 

On Friday, while we're getting breakfast ready, Scott asks Ryan and Tilly to help him hang up a big banner that says “Happy Mother's Day!” Which doesn't make any sense, because it's June 15, and Mother's Day was more than a month ago. But when I ask Scott, he says he won't answer any questions until everyone's arrived.

Finally, once all the Guest Campers are here, and we've all gone through the line and gotten our food, he bangs a spoon on a glass.

“Good morning, folks,” he says. “Are any of you wondering about this sign here?” And a bunch of people yell “yes,” just like you do in school when the teacher asks a question and wants you all to answer at once.

“Well, allow me to explain,” says Scott. “I've always felt that once a year is not nearly often enough to celebrate mothers and all the wonderful things that they do for their children and for their families. So here at Camp Harmony, every Friday is Mother's Day!”

Some of the adults laugh, probably because they're surprised,
rather than because they actually think it's funny. Right next to me, Tilly speaks up and calls out, “If we're doing extra holidays,” but my mom puts a finger over her lips, and my dad starts whispering in her ear, and she quiets down before she can start demanding extra Halloween and Christmas and whatever else she was going to ask for. But she's already given some of the other kids ideas, and they start yelling out “Valentine's Day!” and “Thanksgiving!”

“Okay, okay,” says Scott. “I hear you. There are lots of great holidays, and we've all got our favorites. And before any of the dads can ask, I think that Father's Day is important, too. But here's the thing: I've only got you here for a week—I'm talking to our Guest Campers now—and we've got a lot to do in that time, without trying to re-create Arbor Day and St. Patrick's Day and what have you.”

“No one said Arbor Day,” yells Ryan. Scott ignores him.

“But unlike St. Patrick's Day and all the others, Mother's Day carries a message that fits in quite nicely with the other things we've been talking about all week. It's about celebrating a family member who doesn't get celebrated all that often. It's about love and respect for the person who, more often than not, holds all the pieces of the family together from day to day. It's about stepping out of our usual roles for a little while, and taking care of her, instead of letting her take care of us. And I think that's a worthwhile pursuit, no matter what day of the year it happens to be.

“So here's how this is going to work. Moms, you get to relax. Get in your bathing suits, sit by the lake, read a book, take a nap. Whatever: your time is your own, which I know isn't something you get to hear very often.”

“I wish I was a mom,” says Tilly, but quietly enough that nobody yells at her. It's a weird thought, Tilly as a mom, and I'm not sure if it sounds like a bad idea because she's thirteen or because she's Tilly.

“As for you kids,” says Scott, “Guest Campers and Core Family both: you're coming with me. I've got a few special activities planned.”

Scott leads us out into the woods, to the spot where we had Saturday Campfire last week, when Scott got hurt. There's still a circle of wood and ashes where the fire was.

“All right,” says Scott. “We're going to play a game called Werewolf.”